Chapter 2: Floral Fumes
The week that followed was marked by a taut, expectant quiet in The Petal & Thorn. Vil attacked his work with a frenetic precision, reorganizing the entire succulent section by hue and hydrating need, sourcing rare black calla lilies for a avant-garde wedding, and brushing every last fallen leaf from the floor mats. He told himself the energy was professional diligence. He refused to examine the source of the tight coil in his stomach every time the door chimed.
Rook, the sunshine client, had returned twice. Once for a “just because” arrangement of wild, foraged-looking greens and berries for his own apartment (“A hunter must have his lair reflect the beauty of the chase!”), and once just to chat, leaning against the counter with an easy smile. He’d asked Vil about his training, his philosophy on the juxtaposition of thorn and bloom. It was refreshing, engaging. Vil had enjoyed it. He’d placed the second gift—a single, perfect, deep purple iris, meaning “compliment”—in a vase next to the mustard flower behind the counter. They made a cheerful little duo.
They did not, however, make his pulse stutter.
That particular, traitorous reaction was reserved for a specific, infuriating combination of a slouched silhouette and golden, disinterested eyes. And he hadn’t seen it.
Until now.
It was a Tuesday, the shop bathed in the long, low light of late afternoon. Vil was up a ladder, delicately misting the hanging baskets of Spanish moss. The bell chimed, and he knew. He didn’t need to look. The air in the room shifted, thickening, the gentle hum of the refrigerated cases suddenly sounding loud. He finished his task with deliberate calm, descended the ladder, and turned.
Leona stood just inside the door, hands in his pockets. He looked tired. Not bored, but worn thin, shadows under his eyes. He wore a simple black t-shirt under a soft, open collared shirt, and it made him look younger, less like a prince playing at being casual and more like a man who had forgotten to care about the act.
“You,” Vil said, the word coming out softer than he’d intended.
“Me.” Leona’s gaze did its usual sweep of the shop, but it felt slower, less dismissive. It paused on the two small vases behind the counter. His mouth flattened, just for an instant, before he looked back at Vil. “Need flowers.”
“A recurring theme.” Vil walked to the sink, rinsing the fine mist from his hands and drying them on a linen towel. He needed the ritual. “For your father? Is he…”
“The same.” Leona cut him off, his voice rough. “Stubborn. It’s not for him.” He shifted his weight, his discomfort palpable. “It’s for an anniversary.”
The word hit Vil’s ears, then sank into his chest, where it turned into a cold, heavy stone.
An anniversary.
Of course. Someone like Leona, with his looks, his money, his title—even a secret one. There would be someone. A beautiful, polished partner who expected grand, meaningful gestures. The stone in Vil’s chest grew edges. He felt absurdly, disproportionately irritated.
“An anniversary,” Vil repeated, his tone flattening into pure professionalism. He moved behind the counter, putting a physical barrier between them. “Congratulations are in order, then. How many years?”
Leona blinked, as if the question was strange. “Uh. Fifteen? Something like that.”
Fifteen years. Vil’s mind did the math. An established relationship. A deep, long-standing commitment. The edges of the stone dug in. He busied himself pulling out his book of special order forms, though he never used it. “Fifteen is crystal. Or glassware. Traditionally.” He couldn’t keep a slight, sharp edge from his voice. “But I suppose flowers are a suitable… supplement.”
Leona just stared at him, a faint line appearing between his brows. “I just need the flowers.”
“Of course.” Vil picked up a pen, clicking it once, sharply. “What is your partner’s favorite color? Or preferred fragrance? We should avoid lilies if they’re allergic. Do they have a sentimental favorite bloom? Something from a wedding bouquet, perhaps?”
He was firing questions like darts, each one aimed at a mental image of a faceless, perfect spouse. He watched Leona’s face for signs of fond reminiscence, for the softness that should accompany such a query.
Instead, Leona looked confused, then vaguely pained. “They’re not… It’s not for a partner.” He said the word as if it tasted foreign. “It’s for my brother. And his husband. Their anniversary.”
The relief that flooded Vil’s system was so violent, so instantaneous, it left him lightheaded. He had to steady himself with a hand on the cool marble counter. Not a partner. A brother. A brother and his husband. The cold stone evaporated, leaving behind a messy pool of shame and confused elation.
“Oh.” The word was a whisper. He cleared his throat. “Right. Of course. Crystal anniversary would be… awkward, then. For a brother.”
“Yeah. Awkward.” Leona was watching him closely now, that tired golden gaze sharpening. He took a step closer to the counter. The scent of sun-warmed cedar and clean cotton reached Vil. “You okay? You look like you just smelled something rotten.”
“I’m perfectly fine.” Vil snapped upright, tossing the pen down. It clattered against the marble. “A sibling anniversary is a lovely occasion. What are they like? Your brother and his wife.”
Leona shrugged, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. A relaxation. “Falena’s… steadfast. Traditional in his own way. Loves the dumb formal events I can’t stand. His wife, Kira is… loud. In a good way. Bright. Makes him laugh.” He paused, searching for words. “They balance each other. She doesn’t let Falena take himself too seriously.”
The description was grudging, but fond. Vil listened, his mind already translating. Steadfast and traditional. Loud and bright. Balance.
He moved out from behind the counter, drawn to the coolers. His earlier agitation was gone, replaced by a focused, warm energy. “Fifteen years is a testament to that balance,” he mused aloud, his hand hovering over different blooms. “It requires strength and joy. Durability and laughter.” He selected two stems of bold, sunflower-colored gerbera daisies. “Joy.” Then he reached for stems of burgundy dianthus, their fringed petals a deep, resilient red. “Enduring passion.” He added spikes of blue veronica for fidelity, and frothy white baby’s breath not for innocence, but for the sheer, celebratory fullness of a life built together.
As he worked, assembling the bouquet on the broad table, he felt Leona come to stand beside him. Not too close, but close enough that Vil was acutely aware of his presence.
“You do that like it’s a science,” Leona said quietly.
“It’s a language,” Vil corrected, his fingers deftly winding a ribbon of copper wire around the stems. “You’re just learning the alphabet.”
He felt, rather than saw, Leona’s smile. “Still giving lessons, florist?”
“Someone has to.” Vil finished the binding and began selecting foliage—sturby, glossy camellia leaves for longevity, a few fronds of soft silvery sage for wisdom. “Unless you’d prefer to go back to ‘green things.’”
“I’m learning the error of my ways.” Leona leaned a hip against the table. “My mother put the last bouquet in her sitting room. Right where everyone has to see it. She tells people her second son has ‘a hidden sensitivity.’”
Vil snorted, a short, ungraceful sound he immediately regretted. “I hope you’re charging her for the character reference.”
“I’m considering it.”
Their eyes met over the vibrant bundle of flowers. The tiredness was still there in Leona’s face, but the boredom was gone, replaced by a focused, quiet intensity. Vil’s breath hitched. He looked back down at his work.
“So,” Leona said, his voice dropping slightly. “The sunny guy who brings you flowers. He a regular?”
The question was casual, but the undertone was not. Vil’s fingers fumbled with a piece of raffia. He kept his eyes on the stems. “Rook? He’s been in a few times. He has an appreciation for aesthetic theory.”
“Rook.” Leona tested the name. “He a florist too?”
“A forager. A hunter, he says. Of beauty.” Vil could feel Leona’s gaze on his profile, hot and specific.
“Huh.” Leona was silent for a moment. The shop felt incredibly small. “And does he… hunt here often?”
Vil finally turned his head, meeting that golden stare full-on. He was too close. “Are you interrogating my clientele, Kingscholar?”
A slow, lazy grin spread across Leona’s face. It was different from the sharp, challenging smirks before. This one was warmer, more intimate. “Just curious if I have competition for your expert tutelage.”
The implication hung in the scented air between them, undeniable and terrifying. Vil’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. This was flirting. Awkward, roundabout, incredibly Leona-esque flirting. And he had been so busy being jealous of an imaginary partner that he’d missed the signals entirely.
He turned fully, the finished bouquet held between them like a shield. “Your brother’s arrangement is ready. It speaks of enduring joy and balanced partnership.” He held it out. “The lesson, for today, is concluded.”
Leona accepted the bouquet, his fingers brushing Vil’s again. This time, neither of them pulled away immediately. The flowers, bright and celebratory, were a stark contrast to the tense, quiet electricity crackling in the space around them.
“How much do I owe you, Professor?” Leona’s voice was a low rumble.
“Ninety-five.” Vil’s own voice sounded thin.
Leona shifted the bouquet to one arm, pulling his wallet out with his free hand. He extracted the money, but instead of handing it over, he held it loosely, looking from the cash to Vil’s face. “You know, for a guy who deals in saying things without words,” he said slowly, “you can be pretty hard to read.”
Before Vil could formulate a response—a sharp retort, a polite deflection, anything—Leona closed the distance. He tucked the folded bills not into Vil’s hand, but into the front pocket of his immaculately tailored apron. The move was shockingly fast, surprisingly deft. Vil felt the whisper of knuckles against his hipbone through the layers of fabric.
He froze.
Leona didn’t step back. He was right there, the bouquet of sun-colored daisies and burgundy blooms pressed against his chest, his eyes locked on Vil’s. The scent of the flowers—green, sweet, peppery—mixed with the clean, warm scent of him.
“There,” Leona murmured, his gaze dropping to Vil’s lips for a heartbeat before returning to his eyes. A challenge. A question.
The door chimed, a bright, shocking sound.
They sprang apart. A woman with a stroller was struggling to get it over the threshold. Vil’s professionalism snapped back into place like a shield slamming down. “Let me help you with that!” he said, his voice too bright, too loud. He hurried over, his movements stiff.
By the time he’d helped the woman in and turned back, Leona was already at the door. He looked back over his shoulder, the bouquet in hand. His expression was unreadable again, the moment of open intensity shuttered.
“See you around, Vil,” he said, and then he was gone.
The woman cooed over a display of pink hyacinths. Vil nodded, smiled robotically, his mind a whirling static. The feel of the bills in his apron pocket burned like a brand. The ghost of Leona’s knuckles against his hipbone ached.
He had come in for an anniversary bouquet. He had said it wasn’t for a partner. He had asked about Rook. He had tucked money into Vil’s apron.
The facts lined up, clear and irrefutable. The meaning behind them was a labyrinth Vil was terrified to enter.
He tended to the woman with the stroller, his answers automatic, his smile fixed. When she left with her hyacinths, the silence of the shop roared back. He pulled the money from his pocket, smoothing the crumpled bills on the counter.
Next to the cash, the cheerful yellow mustard flower and the princely purple iris sat in their vases. They looked like what they were: nice gifts from a pleasant admirer.
Vil placed a hand flat on the cool marble, steadying himself. He looked at the empty space by the worktable where Leona had leaned. Where he had stood too close.
He had been so, so wrong. This wasn’t just interesting.
It was dangerous.
It was dangerous.
Vil repeated that to himself for two weeks. He threw himself into complex commissions—a cathedral wedding requiring two hundred individually wired orchids, a funeral wreath for a state senator made entirely of white chrysanthemums and olive branches. He even had a perfectly civil coffee with Rook, who was charming, intelligent, and blessedly uncomplicated. Yet his mind kept drifting back to the sensation of bills being tucked into his apron pocket, the heat of a gaze that felt like a physical touch. He was being ridiculous. He was a professional. He sold flowers to a prickly, probably-straight prince who saw him as a mildly entertaining service provider. End of story.
The bell chimed on a Thursday afternoon, slicing through Vil’s concentration as he trimmed thorns from a batch of ‘Black Magic’ roses.
He knew the rhythm of the steps before he even looked up. The slow, measured cadence of someone who owned every room he entered. Leona stood inside the door, letting it swing shut behind him. He looked less tired than before, but there was a new, coiled energy about him. He met Vil’s eyes directly, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
“You’re back.” Vil set his shears down, the snick of the blades loud in the quiet shop. “Did the crystal anniversary bouquet cause a familial scandal?”
“They loved it.” Leona shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against a display table of succulents. It wobbled slightly. “My brother said it was the only gift that didn’t seem like it came from a catalog. His husband put it right in the middle of their dining table. They said to thank you.”
A warm, genuine pleasure spread through Vil’s chest, momentarily dissolving his tension. “That’s… very good to hear. I’m glad it was well-received.”
“Yeah.” Leona pushed off the table, wandering closer. His gaze swept over Vil’s worktable, lingering on the dark red rose petals. “So. I need another one.”
“Another anniversary?” Vil asked, picking up a rose again, running his thumb carefully over a velvety petal. “Your family is demanding this year.”
“Not an anniversary.” Leona stopped on the other side of the table. “A romantic one. The real kind.”
Vil’s thumb stilled on the petal. The warm pleasure in his chest flash-froze. He kept his eyes on the rose. “I see. For a partner, then.” His voice was perfectly even, meticulously neutral.
“Not yet.” Leona’s voice was closer. He’d moved around the table. “For someone I met recently. Can’t stop thinking about them.”
Oh. The word was a silent, hollow thud in Vil’s mind. Of course. Someone Leona met recently. Someone who wasn’t him. Someone who inspired actual romantic pursuit, not just exasperated banter and intrusive payments. The coldness in his chest spread, crystalline and sharp.
He forced himself to look up, to offer a polite, professional smile. It felt stiff on his face. “Congratulations. That’s… exciting. What are they like?”
Leona leaned his hip against the table, his eyes scanning Vil’s face with an intensity that felt unfair under the circumstances. “Complicated. Sharp. Unbelievably good at what they do. They have this… punishing standard for beauty. For everything, really.” He paused, his gaze drifting to Vil’s hands, still holding the black rose. “They’re meticulous. It drives me crazy. And they’re so focused they miss what’s right in front of them.”
Vil listened, each word a small, precise cut. Complicated. Sharp. Meticulous. It was a description of a type, not a person. It could be anyone. A fellow noble, a sharp-tongued diplomat, an artist. Not a florist. Never a florist. He felt a ridiculous urge to defend this unknown person. “Perhaps they’re just selective,” he said, his tone light. Banter. Normal banter. “Not everyone settles for the first easy option.”
A slow grin spread across Leona’s face. “See? Sharp.” He gestured vaguely at the coolers. “So? What do you got for that?”
Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Vil turned toward his stock. A romantic bouquet. For Leona to give to someone else. His professional instinct warred with a visceral, childish desire to create something hideous. He silenced it. This was his craft. He would be flawless.
He worked silently, his movements efficient and sure. He selected flowers not for their common romantic connotations, but for the specific, frustrating description. Thorned beauty: he took ‘Black Magic’ roses, their petals the color of wine and shadow. Unbending standard: he added deep blue delphiniums, tall and regimented. Meticulous focus: he included white freesia, whose scent was clean, precise, and unforgettable. For the ‘sharp’ quality, he wired in sprays of burgundy broom, its lines angular and dramatic. He bound it all with a stark, black ribbon.
“It’s uncompromising,” Vil said, handing the finished arrangement to Leona. It was a masterpiece, severe and stunning. “It doesn’t beg for attention. It commands it. I hope your complicated someone appreciates it.”
Leona took the bouquet, his fingers brushing Vil’s. He looked from the dark, dramatic flowers to Vil’s carefully placid face. “Yeah. Me too.”
He paid in cash, their fingers avoiding contact this time. Vil felt drained, a hollow courtesy animating his limbs as he made change.
“Good luck,” Vil said, the words tasting like ash.
Leona nodded, holding the bouquet carefully. He hesitated for a moment, as if about to say something else, then turned to leave. Vil turned away first, busying himself with rearranging the shears and wire on his table, the metallic clicks loud in the silence.
He heard the door chime, the sound final. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, his shoulders slumping. Foolish. He had been so foolish. He stared at the empty space on his worktable where the bouquet had been assembled.
A flash of deep red caught his eye.
On the far edge of the table, standing alone in the slender crystal vase that usually held his single-stem experiments, was one of the ‘Black Magic’ roses from the batch he’d been preparing. It hadn’t been there before Leona left. It was perfect, a single drop of shadow against the clear glass.
Leona must have taken it from the bouquet he’d just paid for and left it behind.
A kind, wasteful gesture. A prince’s casual generosity. Vil picked up the vase, the stem cool against his fingers. The rose was for him, only in the most literal, fleeting sense. A consolation prize. A parting gift from a man on his way to give a far grander, more meaningful bouquet to someone who truly occupied his thoughts.
He placed the vase back on the counter, next to the cheerful mustard flower and the princely iris from Rook. The trio looked pathetic now. A collection of leftovers.
Vil ran a fingertip over the velvety, near-black petal. It was soft. It was beautiful. It meant nothing at all.
It meant nothing at all.
Vil left the black rose in its vase on the counter for three days. Its petals began to curl at the very edges, a faint line of dried crimson forming like a delicate scar. Each time he passed it, a sharp, stupid hope would lurch in his chest—that the bell would chime, that Leona would slouch back in with some half-formed, arrogant excuse. The hope was immediately followed by a wave of cold shame. He was a florist. Princes, even irritating, secretive ones, did not come back for single, leftover roses. They returned for grand, romantic gestures meant for other people.
On the fourth day, as Vil was meticulously peeling the lower leaves from a bundle of white lilac stems, the bell rang. His head snapped up, his heart doing that same traitorous jump. It wasn’t Leona.
This man was broader, older. He carried his weight like a comfortable bear, with a warm, open face and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners. His suit was obviously, ludicrously expensive, a subtle charcoal grey that whispered of custom tailoring and royal advisors. He moved with an assured, gentle presence, his gaze taking in the shop with genuine appreciation.
“Hello,” the man said, his voice a rich, pleasant baritone. “This place is even lovelier than described.”
Vil set down his shears, wiping his hands on a towel. His professional facade, polished to a high gloss by years of practice, slid into place. “Thank you. Can I help you find something today?”
“I hope so.” The man approached the counter, his eyes landing on the trio of single-stem vases: the cheerful mustard flower, the princely iris, the dying black rose. He smiled. “I’m actually here to thank you. The anniversary bouquet you made for my husband and I was… extraordinary. You have a profound gift.”
The words sank in slowly. Anniversary bouquet. Husband. Vil’s mind clicked the pieces together. This was Falena. Leona’s brother. The one who was steadfast and traditional.
“Oh,” Vil said, the polished facade softening into genuine pleasure. “You’re Falena. I’m so glad you liked it. It was a joy to make for such a meaningful occasion. Leona described you both beautifully.”
“Did he now?” Falena’s eyebrows lifted, a spark of surprised delight in his eyes. He leaned a little on the counter, a confidential gesture. “That’s high praise coming from him. Usually, he just grunts about ‘obligations.’ He said you were… what was it? ‘A pain, but good at it.’” He chuckled. “That’s a five-star review from my little brother.”
Vil laughed, the sound startling himself. It felt good. “That sounds about right. I’m Vil.”
“Vil.” Falena nodded, extending a large, well-manicured hand. Vil shook it. The grip was firm, warm. “It’s a real pleasure. Kira—my husband—hasn’t stopped talking about the flowers. He says they’re the only thing in our dining room he doesn’t want to redecorate around. That’s historic.”
“That’s the best compliment I’ve ever received,” Vil said, meaning it. He felt a flush of pride, clean and professional, washing away some of the lingering sourness from Leona’s last visit. “Please thank him for me.”
“I will.” Falena’s gaze drifted around the shop again, nodding in approval. Then his eyes returned to Vil, studying him with a friendly curiosity. “You know, I have the strangest feeling I’ve seen you before, Vil. Your face is very familiar.”
Vil shrugged politely. “I don’t think so. I’m here most days. Perhaps you’ve passed the shop?”
“No, it’s not that.” Falena tapped his chin, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers, a good-natured smile spreading across his face. “Of course! You might have seen me on the news. I’m Falena Kingscholar, the King Regent of Sunset Savanna. The press does love a dull photo op outside a charity gala.”
The words landed not with a bang, but with a slow, cold seep.
King Regent.
Of Sunset Savanna.
The air in the shop didn’t whoosh out; it just hardened, becoming brittle and thin. Vil’s polite smile froze on his face. Every interaction with Leona rewound itself in his mind, now playing on a new, terrifying screen. The arrogant disinterest. The effortless cool. The secret he’d kept just by being himself. Not just a prince. The second prince of a sovereign nation. He’d been making flowers for royalty. He’d been sarcastic to royalty. He’d taken cash from a prince’s hand and tucked it into his apron.
The sinking pit in his stomach wasn’t just for the gulf in their status. It was for his own monumental, humiliating blindness. And it was for the image, now crystal clear, of Leona—Prince Leona of Sunset Savanna—waltzing in here, slouching against the displays, asking for a romantic bouquet for someone he’d met recently. Of course. It would be some elegant noble, some sharp-witted diplomat’s son or daughter, someone from his own rarified world.
“I… see,” Vil managed, his voice strangely distant. He heard it as if from the end of a long tunnel. “That would explain it. Congratulations on your, um, regency.” The words were ash in his mouth.
“Thank you.” Falena waved a hand, as if swatting away a fly. “It’s mostly paperwork and trying not to fall asleep in meetings.” He leaned in again, his expression turning warmer, more conspiratorial. “Speaking of Leona… I wanted to thank you for that, too. He seems… lighter, lately. Less like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders. I think he’s found someone he likes. Really likes. It’s good to see.”
Each word was a precise, surgical cut. Found someone he likes. Vil’s own foolish, secret hope, the one he’d barely allowed himself to name, shriveled and died instantly. It was confirmed. Laid out by a king with a kind smile.
Who was he kidding? Pining after a prince. A florist with a sharp tongue and a rented storefront, entertaining fantasies over a few brusque conversations and a single, probably-pity rose. The reality was as stark and heavy as stone.
Vil’s smile didn’t falter. It became a thing of muscle memory and sheer will, a perfect, polished petal glued onto a dying stem. “That’s wonderful to hear,” he said, the lie smooth and bright. “He’s a… very interesting person.”
“That’s one word for it.” Falena laughed, a rich, genuine sound. He pulled a card from his inner pocket—thick, cream stock with elegant, embossed lettering. “Here. If you ever need anything. Or if my brother bothers you too much. It was a true pleasure, Vil.”
Vil took the card. It felt heavier than lead. “The pleasure was mine, Your Maj— Falena. Thank you for your patronage.”
He walked Falena to the door, every step automatic. He held it open, the bell giving its same, innocent chime. He waved as the King Regent of Sunset Savanna gave a final, friendly nod and walked down the sun-dappled street toward a waiting, discreet town car.
Vil closed the door.
He turned the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’ with a quiet click.
Then he walked slowly, deliberately, back behind the counter. He stared at the black rose, its edges now fully browned, a crumbled, dark thing. He picked up the slender vase.
His vision blurred. A hot, sharp pressure built behind his eyes and in his throat. He didn’t fight it. He stood there in the silent, beautiful shop he’d built, holding the dead gift from a prince, as the first tear traced a scalding path down his cheek. Then another. He cried silently, his shoulders shaking, for the stupidity of his hope, for the yawning gap between a shopkeeper and a sovereign, for the vivid, imagined figure of Leona’s mysterious, worthy beloved.
He cried until his chest ached and his breath came in ragged hitches. Then, with a final, shuddering sigh, he placed the vase back on the counter. He wiped his face with the backs of his hands, angry at the smudges they left. He was Vil Schoenheit. He was a professional. He had a business to run.
He picked up his shears again, the metal cool and familiar in his grip. He looked at the wilting rose, a symbol of everything that could never be. And with a clean, decisive snip, he severed the bloated, blackened head from its thorny stem. It fell onto the polished marble with a soft, final sound.
He swept the ruined petals into the dustbin. He emptied the vase, washed it, and set it, shining and empty, back on the shelf.